Everything Girl

This afternoon, as I hurried out of the office to soak up as much natural light as I could on my one-hour reprieve from Reception, I noticed – with delight – just the slightest bite of cool in the breeze, in spite of the heat of the sun. Fickle, indulgent thoughts of plum nail polish and deep, dark lipstick, the crucial contemplation of What To Do With My Hair For Fall, and hopes for an improved autumn wardrobe played at the outskirts of more central - if scattered and hard to identify – thoughts.

I claim no official or definable spiritual affiliation, but I most definitely gravitate towards earth-based metaphors. I am deeply drawn to the rhythm of the seasons and can always find some sort of parallel between the time of the year and the cycles of my body and emotions. A number of years ago I participated in a community garden and as a former high-rise dweller in Canada’s largest metropolis, I was galvanized by the effect of working the soil on my inner life. Choosing the plot of earth, breaking it up, tilling, preparing, seeding, weeding, thinning, watering – all of it was a new experience with plenty of trial and error, and it provided an external outlet for an innate, otherwise untouchable truth.

My most recent season in Montréal was a tangle of activity and it sprouted suddenly - and somewhat haphazardly. In May and June, my ex-husband informed me that he was in love and was going to move from British Columbia to California to live with his new amour. This significantly impacted the children on several levels, and it was decided over a period of weeks that they would move to Montréal in the summer of 2009. Then, with what were at times heated negotiations, it was decided (for a variety of clumsy, thorny reasons) that Leah and Daniel would move to Montréal a year ahead of the original schedule.

And so the summer was spent renovating a very small apartment into one that accommodates a slightly wilful, moody, flippant 14 year-old girl and an awkward, creative, affectionate 12 year-old boy. Warren (who, incidentally, was the one to suggest the earlier move, and the ensuing renovations to our entire lifestyle), quietly and confidently took on the role of brand new stepfather – an unprecedented role for him – which meant that certain discussions needed to happen, carefully, easily, honestly. In the midst of these discussions and renovations, I was still frantically pulling out what seemed to be never-ending bureaucratic weeds which continually choked the smooth completion of my divorce – another prickly topic considering that Warren’s divorce came into effect on July 4th – his own Independence Day.

There were times, oh, many times, when I wanted to simply give up – though how to give up was not clear. I certainly didn’t want to be anywhere else, but I was tired and a bit overwhelmed and it was unseasonably rainy to boot. It felt like…Not Spring, or, it felt like Un-Summer. We weren’t sleeping in as much as we used to, and there was a sense of fatigue and urgency – especially on the sun-dappled days. I wasn’t prancing about at the open-air market in my pretty print dress picking sexy, sweet fruit or buying fresh, fragrant baguette (at least, not as often as I wanted to!). The swift shift in my worldview as non-custodial mother to incipient re-custodial mother after being a single, bohemian lover for the twenty months caused some fault lines to rub against one another. We were getting things done, sure, and still living, laughing, loving, renovating, exploring, working, playing, and creating, but there were time it got cloudy and stormy inside and I couldn’t judge the weather.

Regardless, Warren framed and hammered and installed and drew more plans and tiled and measured and was as kind, and strong and steady as an old oak. His roots go deep, deep, deep and I love him to the point of tears for it.

Me? Oh - I flitted and fretted and blamed it on hormones when I could.

Then, suddenly, it all came together: I re-submitted certain paperwork to the courts regarding my divorce and it was approved. The apartment took shape. There were some brilliant, blinding days. And the day before Leah and Daniel arrived in Montréal, Warren took me to the lush, green park four blocks away from our love-nest, sat me under the willow tree by the pond, gave me a beautiful ring perfectly suited to what he knew I would appreciate most, and asked me to marry him. I had so dearly wanted this and could not be sure when I was going to hear this from him, and had almost deferred hope that it would…but, as usual, his timing was impeccable.

The next day, we met the kids at the airport and brought them to their new home. Our home. Now this city is theirs, too. They live with at the Love Nest, smack-dab in the middle of an old, artsy, bohemian neighbourhood in Montréal with an old grey cat and twirly wrought-iron staircases and stone churches with noisy bells on the corners.

How did this happen? How did it all come together like this? I try to track it in reverse by the seasons, and it seems like a half-remembered dream.

August 24th, 2008, my divorce finally took effect – 18 years to the day that I met my ex-husband in San Jose airport, and one year to the day of moving in with Warren - who will become my husband and partner for life on August 1, 2009. We plan to celebrate our marriage in the park where he proposed to me, a park we’ve wandered, rested, kissed, napped, dined, sketched, read, whispered, walked and laughed in countless times over the last year. We’ve seen the leaves and snow cover the houses, cars, and streets, rejoiced at the thaw, and exulted in the times the sun deigned to shine on us. Now we’re gathered in as Family, and as lovers who have pledged to be together for the rest of our lives and are planning the celebration of that promise with our family and friends, this time next year.

Three years ago, I could not have believed this would have, could have, possibly happened like this. Three years ago, it seemed that everything I had planted had failed, that I hadn’t worked hard enough to weed or water. My ground was hard and parched and cracked. My marriage was broken and I was lost. But I had a wee, tiny seed of hope, watered with tears, and somehow, without me fully realising or understanding the process, it came to this, now: Broken relationships set properly in their place, my children restored to my home and my arms, and I to them, and my heart rooted and established in love to my partner, lover, and closest confidante. What a deep, rich mystery is this miraculous harvest!

(Photo by: Lorissa Shepstone)

Renée Letros is mother to a teenage daughter and a just-about-to-be-teenage son. She lives in Montréal, Canada, with her best friend, partner and Love, Warren, in an idyllic tree-lined neighborhood surrounded by parks, cafés, bakeries, churches, and an open-air market. She focuses her writing mainly on non-fictional explorations of relationships with lovers, family, friends, co-workers, and community and culture

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